


Bow to the Queen

by Eione



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Forced Alcohol Consumption, Forced Orgasm, Groping, Scissoring, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21511369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eione/pseuds/Eione
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Princess Cecilia learns the dangers of trying to assert authority over her newly widowed stepmother.
Relationships: Bitter stepmother queen/Bratty princess who is heir to the throne, Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 10
Kudos: 109
Collections: Naughty List 2019





	Bow to the Queen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redlight/gifts).



The funeral ceremonies for King Edmund last all day. In the evening, the queen mother—the queen that was—summons Princess Cecilia to her chambers.

Cecilia considers not going. Queen Rosamunde is only her father’s second wife, not her mother. And Cecilia is fifteen already; she is the heir to the throne, her father’s only child. Cecilia is the rightful queen now, and Rosamunde is nothing. Cecilia could even have the guards throw her out of the castle if she wanted to! She wouldn’t, probably. But she allows herself to imagine it for a few moments. In the end she does go, partly out of curiosity and partly because she has an uneasy feeling that Rosamunde will scold her if she doesn’t.

Rosamunde is alone in her chambers. She holds a silver goblet of wine in her hand. She still wears her black gown that falls in long folds to the floor, but she has taken off her veil, and her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders. Rosamunde really is beautiful, Cecilia admits grudgingly, with her fine dark eyes and graceful carriage. She carries herself so proudly, even when everyone in the court used to whisper about how she seduced the king to her bed. Rosamunde never said anything back, but her lips curved in a scornful smile when she passed the gossiping lords or ladies.

Rosamunde turns to look at Cecilia, glancing over her as if she is not quite satisfied with what she sees. Cecilia raises her chin and doesn’t curtsey. Now that Rosamunde is only the queen mother by marriage and not the queen, Cecilia thinks, it is for Rosamunde to greet her. Her father always made her curtsey to Rosamunde, even before he married her and everyone knew she was the king’s mistress. But she doesn’t have to now, she thinks with satisfaction.

“Princess Cecilia,” Rosamunde says finally.

“I am queen now, not princess,” Cecilia says haughtily, with secret delight at her own daring.

“Your title is princess, until you come of age and the Council acknowledges you.”

“That’s only a formality,” Cecilia says. “I’m my father’s only heir. I am the queen. And you haven’t curtsied to me yet.”

Rosamunde gives her a hard look. “Your father is barely in his grave,” she says. “You are young, with few supporters. Do you truly wish to insist on this?”

“I do,” Cecilia says airily. “We may as well start as we mean to go on.” She feels like giggling.

Rosamunde drains her goblet and sets it down. “Let us have one thing very clear,” she says, her mouth twisting bitterly. “By the terms of your late father’s will, confirmed by the Council in full session, I am regent until you come of age.” She moves closer and grips Cecilia by the chin, tilting her face upward. “That means I have the power here and not you. Do you understand? I can do anything I like to you and no one will stop me. No one will try to stop me.”

She lets go and Cecilia grimaces, rubbing at her face. “You can’t,” Cecilia retorts. “I’m the queen now. If you try to do anything bad to me, all my father’s knights will stop you.”

Rosamunde gives a weary chuckle. “Will they? Will they indeed? Let us see, princess. The two of us are here alone right now. Let us see who will stop me.”

Cecilia is warily poised to flee, but Rosamunde does nothing worse than turn back to the table with the wine pitcher, where she refills her own goblet and fills a second one as well. Rosamunde holds the second goblet out to her. “Drink, princess.”

“I don’t want to drink,” Cecilia says just to be contrary. “And I told you, I’m the queen.”

Rosamunde sets down the wine and strides towards her. Before Cecilia realizes what’s happening, Rosamunde has wrapped a strong arm around her waist and is pulling her close. She pulls Cecilia to the table like she weighs nothing. Cecilia swallows nervously. She is pressed close against Rosamunde’s full breasts; her bosom always makes Cecilia feel a little insecure, although she would never admit it.

Rosamunde picks up the silver goblet. One arm still holds Cecilia trapped in place; she raises her other hand and abruptly pinches Cecilia’s nose shut. Cecilia draws in an indignant breath, and then the goblet is pressed to her lips and tilted, rich wine spilling into her mouth. Cecilia swallows it down, chokes and sputters, and desperately swallows again. Rosamunde holds her in place until Cecilia has swallowed it all and the goblet is empty.

Cecilia is abruptly released, staggering a little. Red wine is trickling down the corners of her mouth; she wipes it away as best she can. She feels a little dizzy, a little giddy.

Rosamunde empties her own goblet of wine again, unhurriedly. Cecilia feels a little odd as she watches Rosamunde drink, her pale throat tilted back. It only occurs to her when Rosamunde sets the goblet down again that she could have run while Rosamunde was distracted, or said something, or—She doesn’t know what. She remains frozen in her place.

“The next time I give you a command,” Rosamunde says coolly, “you will obey. Do you understand?”

Cecilia opens her mouth and closes it again. “No,” she says daringly. “I—I don’t have to!”

Rosamunde gives her that look Cecilia hates, the one that makes it seem like she thinks Cecilia is rather childish. Cecilia doesn’t want to be looked at that way. “You have to obey me,” Cecilia insists.

Rosamunde strides towards her and wraps her arm around Cecilia’s waist again. “I think,” she murmurs, “that someone needs a lesson in obedience. You will remain silent, Cecilia, until I tell you to speak. Or there will be consequences.” Before Cecilia can think what to say, Rosamunde pulls her flush with her chest, Cecilia’s back against the bodice of Rosamunde’s gown and her head against Rosamunde’s shoulder. And then—Then Rosamunde’s hands are sliding over Cecilia’s breasts, stroking and caressing her through the cloth. Cecilia gasps. No one has ever touched her like this. No one has dared. “Don’t,” she tries, hating how her voice wavers. Rosamunde only squeezes her more roughly, rubbing harder with her palms until Cecilia’s nipples stand up.

It feels strange, but somehow good. Every time Rosamunde rubs across her nipples or grips her breasts, it sends a spark of heat through her. She was already dizzy from the wine, but she is feeling more hot and dizzy now, her cheeks hot and flushed. Cecilia thinks that she shouldn’t let Rosamunde do this to her. But Rosamunde is holding her firmly in place, pressing and rubbing her thumbs against the most sensitive places again and again, circling her nipples and sending a jolt through her with every touch until she is breathless. Cecilia finds she has half-closed her eyes, that she has gone limp, her head falling back against Rosamunde’s shoulder. She should stop this, she thinks dazedly, she should tell Rosamunde to stop.

“Let go.” Her voice comes out a whisper.

Rosamunde tweaks her nipples roughly, and she cries out. “I told you not to speak,” Rosamunde murmurs. She slides her hands into the bodice of Cecilia’s gown, and Cecilia gasps at the touch against her skin. Rosamunde grips her nipples again, pinching and twisting them painfully hard. Panting for breath, Cecilia squirms helplessly under the assault. There’s a strange feeling growing between her legs, wet and hot and throbbing. It feels wonderfully good, but the way Rosamunde is pinching her nipples hurts, and feeling it all at the same time is desperately confusing. Rosamunde keeps pinching and twisting, gripping her breasts hard, until Cecilia feels tears come to her eyes.

Finally, Rosamunde relaxes her grip. “Will you obey me now?” she inquires. Cecilia hesitates, but at another hard pinch she nods frantically. “Good,” Rosamunde tells her. “Then don’t speak again until I tell you to.” Cecilia nods again.

Rosamunde draws Cecilia’s head back against her shoulder, bends down, and kisses her hard. Cecilia freezes in surprise. Rosamunde’s mouth is hot and demanding, and Cecilia shivers involuntarily. She can’t help parting her own lips, pressing back tentatively against Rosamunde’s mouth. While Rosamunde continues to press kisses on Cecilia’s mouth, she caresses Cecilia’s breasts again, but more gently, soothing away the hurt. Cecilia makes an uncertain sound, twisting in Rosamunde’s grasp. The heat between her legs is growing; she feels hot and slick there, her underwear clinging to her stickily. Rosamunde’s kisses grow more intimate; she slides her tongue into Cecilia’s mouth, thrusting it possessively between her lips, and Cecilia moans. It’s an embarrassing sound, and she feels her face grow hot, her cheeks flushing even more as Rosamunde keeps kissing her and touching her. There’s pleasure throbbing between her legs, a delicious clenching inside her, and she can’t stop the soft hungry sounds she’s making or keep her hips from giving small jerks. She’s desperately ashamed and yet she doesn’t want it to stop. Her legs are trembling, and she would fall if not for Rosamunde’s arms holding her up.

Rosamunde pulls back a little, looking down at Cecilia. The set of her mouth is still bitter and dissatisfied, and Cecilia suddenly feels like crying. Why does Rosamunde have to look at her like that, as if she’s not good enough? She wants—she wants something desperately, and she doesn’t know how to get it.

Rosamunde lets Cecilia lean back against her, and her hands slide over Cecilia’s hips. She rucks Cecilia’s gown up, and then one of her hands is under Cecilia’s gown, stroking the bare skin on the inside of her thigh. Cecilia shudders and jerks under the touch; there’s a new gush of wetness between her legs, soaking into her underwear. Rosamunde moves her hand up and teases with her fingertips where the cloth is wettest, stroking her through the cloth. It’s horribly, shockingly intimate, but Cecilia can’t think, not when Rosamunde is doing that. Nothing has ever felt so good. She can hear herself making soft breathy moans and gasps.

Without warning, Rosamunde presses hard against her, driving the soaking wet cloth of her underwear against Cecilia’s hot wet inner folds, no, it’s inside her, just a little bit rough on her overheated skin, and so are Rosamunde’s fingers, sliding roughly back and forth. Cecilia gives a small shriek as her entire body jerks and shudders in a sudden burst of hot pleasure, clenching again and again around the cloth of her underwear and Rosamunde’s fingertips that are busily working inside her. Rosamunde keeps pressing and grinding, drawing it out in wave after wave of pleasure, her body clenching and spasming while she whimpers and twists against Rosamunde’s hand.

Rosamunde barely gives her a moment to catch her breath. She yanks Cecilia’s underwear off, tossing them somewhere on the floor, and thrusts two fingers inside her, spreading her open. Cecilia is so wet and slippery that they slide in without resistance. As she thrusts her fingers into Cecilia, in and out, over and over, her wet fingers also slide over another place, a hot swollen nub that makes Cecilia gasp every time it’s touched. Cecilia’s body clenches around Rosamunde’s fingers with every thrust, the heat building inside her again. It’s even more intense without the barrier of cloth, the feeling almost unbearably good. Cecilia whimpers quietly and rocks against Rosamunde’s hand, chasing the sensation.

But Rosamunde stops and sits back, pulling her fingers away. Cecilia makes a noise of protest.

“My husband is gone,” Rosamunde says in that bitter way she has. “But it seems I’ve found a new wife, so eager for my touch. Is that what you want, Cecilia? To be my tender young wife? Do you want to spread your legs for me and serve me in bed, however and whenever I want?”

“I—yes?” Cecilia stammers uncertainly. She’ll say anything if only Rosamunde will go back to touching her.

“Beg me,” Rosamunde says. Her eyes are very dark. “Beg me to take you. Beg me to touch you.”

“Please,” Cecilia whispers. She can feel her cheeks burning. She’s so wet, it’s dripping down her thighs. “Please, please take me,” she stammers. “Please, touch me. I, I need, I, please.”

She feels like a fool, but it must be good enough, because Rosamunde abruptly jerks her own skirts up and pushes her underwear off, letting it fall to the floor. Rosamunde tilts Cecilia’s hips up and mounts her, straddling her thigh.

Rosamunde settles against her with a harsh exhalation of breath. Rosamunde’s hot folds press against hers like an obscene kiss, and then Rosamunde starts moving, jerking against her roughly, hard and fast. Cecilia trembles under her, feeling Rosamunde’s slippery wet heat pressing into her inner parts, sliding and grinding against her, and she cries out again and again with how good it feels, helpless with pleasure, and she shakes and shakes with stars bursting against the inside of her eyes. Cecilia whimpers quietly when Rosamunde doesn’t stop, but Rosamunde’s grip on her hips holds her in place and she can only lie back limply and let Rosamunde use her body until she is satisfied.

Cecilia doesn’t stir when Rosamunde moves off her. But an uncounted time later, Rosamunde’s hands are pulling her upright. Rosamunde clicks her tongue. “You can’t leave my chambers like this,” she says with a hint of mockery. “Come, look at yourself.”

Cecilia stands on shaking legs and allows Rosamunde to lead her in front of a mirror. Her gown is wrinkled, the ties of her bodice half undone, her hair disheveled and falling in loose stands over her face. Her face is flushed, her lips swollen. She looks utterly wanton, she realizes with a stir of shame.

Rosamunde guides her to sit down in the chair before the mirror. With deft hands, the hands that so recently were touching her most intimate parts with devastating effect, she pulls out Cecilia’s hairpins, letting her hair fall down loose. She carefully runs a comb through Cecilia’s hair until it lies smooth again, holding the loose tresses between her fingers, and twists it back into place in its formal style. Cecilia sits there through it all and lets Rosamunde handle her as she wills. She is confused, uncertain, half-ashamed—how could she do such things, with her own father’s wife?

Rosamunde finishes putting Cecilia’s hair and clothing to rights with quick efficiency and swipes a cloth dipped in cold water over her face. Cecilia looks at herself in the mirror. She looks—she looks normal, perhaps a little tired, but nothing surprising after a long day. She stands gingerly and turns around to face Rosamunde, and suddenly finds she has no idea what to say.

Rosamunde glances down at her from her superior height. There is no hesitation or uncertainty in Rosamunde’s manner; she stands before Cecilia as proudly as a queen who rules a nation. “Your curtsey.” Her expression is inflexible.

Cecilia curtsies on unsteady legs. “Madam,” she whispers.

Rosamunde inclines her head graciously. “Go back to your room and rest,” she commands. “We will speak again tomorrow.”

Cecilia goes. She doesn’t realize until she’s halfway down the hall that she’s left her underwear behind. Her thighs are slippery and wet under her gown where her own slick dripped out of her, where Rosamunde ground against her. She feels as if everyone who sees her must be able to tell what has happened to her, what she’s done, but the guards salute her as she passes just as usual.

She reaches her room and gratefully closes the door behind her. Her maids come forward to undress her, and Cecilia freezes. If they undress her, if they see her body, she is certain they will know. She can’t bear for anyone to touch her right now. She jerks away in a panic.

“I can do it myself,” she snaps. The maids are used to her moods; they curtsey and withdraw.

Cecilia is shaking with exhaustion. She only slips off her shoes and stockings and then climbs under the covers fully dressed. She curls up in her bed, pulling the covers over her head like a child.

Her skin is oversensitive, and her body still tingles in all the places where Rosamunde touched her. She remembers Rosamunde’s mocking voice asking if Cecilia wants to be her wife. Does that mean Rosamunde will want to do this to her every day? She closes her eyes and lets out a shuddering breath. Cecilia still doesn’t know whether she wants to stop Rosamunde from touching her, or to beg her to do it again. Everything seems too much all at once, her thoughts slow and heavy. She curls up tighter around herself and lets herself fall into sleep.


End file.
